The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  They rode south at a rather leisurely pace until the sun was high above before stopping to rest. Jordan knew it was for her benefit and was very grateful. Her back was killing her from sitting so stiffly against the captain and her bottom was already sore. When he lifted her down from the horse, her legs almost gave way from sheer disuse.

  Some men began to break out bread and jerky, but she wasn’t hungry. Instead, she wandered aimlessly to a small stream, making doubly sure to keep away from the bulk of the English soldiers who seemed to be eyeing her with unsavory flare. The way they stared at her made her skin crawl. She didn’t even know where the captain had gone, and she felt very alone. Self-pity was growing.

  The water was icy and refreshing and she ran a finger in it absently, her mind far back at Langton. She wondered what her family was doing at this moment; were they glad to be rid of her? She wondered if they were laughing and celebrating happily to be rid of the squeamish girl with no taste for battle. She pouted and slapped at the water, feeling lonesome and sad and disoriented. But in the back of her mind, she knew that all of her worries about her family were foolish; they loved her and were terribly sad she was gone. So was she.

  Above, birds twittered loudly in the trees. She glanced up and saw a nest, knowing the birds were angry to have the intrusion of humans. She clucked up at them and spoke soothing words, not noticing until it was too late that there was a very large body next to her.

  “Would you like some wine?” It was the captain.

  She went rigid. “Nay, thank ye.”

  He sat the bladder down and pulled off his gauntlets; he was already helmetless. Kneeling, which was no easy feat in a suit of armor, he splashed cold water on his face and shook his head, pelting her with droplets. She tried not to look at him, her stomach quivering with nerves.

  “Lady Jordan Scott, named for the River Jordan,” he repeated her own words, spoken long ago. “I never thought to see you again.”

  So he did remember. She felt a jolt of surprise and another jolt of fear. Mayhap he remembered the slip-shod job she did in repair of his wound. Mayhap he also remembered the merciless pain of the whisky burn. She wondered with rising panic if he were going to drown her in the creek as punishment, although she knew her thoughts were daft. She was daft.

  Yet…she had noticed he did not limp. Mayhap her half-hearted repair was blessed by God and the leg had recovered properly. Forcing herself to calm, there was only one way to find out.

  “Yer leg healed?”

  He slapped the scarred thigh. “Good as new, thanks to you,” he replied, then looked her fully in the face. She returned his stare openly and he smiled at the astonishment he saw in her eyes. “I did not think it possible, but you have actually grown more beautiful since the last I saw you.”

  A faint blush crept into her cheeks and she choked on a swallow. “ ’Twas dark that night, sir knight. ’Twas difficult to see much at all.”

  “I could see you,” he insisted softly. “Have you been well?”

  She nodded curtly, her only answer. She found herself looking away from his consuming gaze, staring down at the bubbling water.

  “I was surprised to see ye,” she said after a moment. “Yer wound was so terrible I was sure ye were to die from it.”

  “Nay, my lady, I did indeed survive,” he replied, “but I am sure I would not have had you not come to my aid. I owe you my life.”

  She shook her head nervously. “All I did was stitch ye up and leave ye there to die. I dinna do much at all.”

  “ ’Twas enough,” he said. “And I shall be forever grateful to you. Thank you.”

  She was blushing furiously by now, much to her horror. Sweet Jesu,’ what an effect this man had on her. Never in her life had she met anyone who could make her feel like melting with a word or a glance. Her fear was abating quickly.

  “Ye lied to me,” she blurted after a moment, shifting the subject away from her.

  He looked concerned. “When did I do this disgraceful thing?”

  “Back on the battlefield after I sewed yer wound,” she said. “I asked ye if ye were The Wolf and ye told me no.”

  He looked thoughtful. “As I recall, I told you my name was de Wolfe, not The Wolf. I never actually lied.”

  Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “A technicality, sir knight. Ye should never lie to a lady.”

  He nodded his head as if admitting his error. “There was no point in frightening you even more than you already were. I saw no harm in evading your question.”

  She had to admit she agreed with his reasoning. Lowering her lashes, she glanced down at the stream again. “When did ye recognize me?” she asked.

  He rose to his full height. “When I first laid eyes on you,” he said. “There is no mistaking your face, my lady. ’Tis the most beautiful face in all Scotland and England.”

  She smiled and looked away, embarrassed to the hilt. To be truthful, William was embarrassed, too. He was gushing like a smitten boy, not at all within his character.

  “I am being too bold, my lady,” he said softly. “Forgive me.”

  She simply nodded, not knowing how to respond to him. His manner made her feel extremely comfortable and her terror was gone, although it was replaced by a new sort of nervousness that made her cheeks grow warm. In a struggle to change the subject, she again took note of the armor that had so impressed her.

  “Does yer sword have a name, sir knight?” she asked. “I have heard that all Sassenach knights name their swords.”

  He glanced at his blade, strapped to his waist and thigh. “I gave it a name, once, in my youth. I called it mighty Jupiter. But I have not used that name in years. Now I simply call it Friend.”

  She nodded, repressing an urge to comment about The Wolf’s reputation for swordsmanship. “My Da has read to us the story of the Anglos and the Saxons,” she said. “I know that Charlemagne’s sword was named Joyosa and that good king Arthur bore Excalibur.”

  He inclined his head. “That is correct. I am surprised your father saw it fit to read to you the legends of the English. Up ahead, at Carter Bar, is where the line is drawn between the Celts and the Norman-Angles.”

  She looked at him. “I know. ’Tis why I am here.”

  He found himself studying her face, ingraining her features into his brain for future reference when he needed something pleasant to think on. He hoped he had not offended her by his last remark.

  “You seem to know a bit about knights, my lady,” he commented.

  She smiled shyly and looked away. “Just what my Da tells me. He used to be a good soldier when he was younger. Now he is content to command from afar.” She suddenly became distant. “He keeps his armor, his mail and plates, everything, hung in a closet. His manservant still polishes it regularly, as if someday he will be called into service again. But it just sits alongside his mighty sword.”

  His brow furrowed slightly. “I was under the impression that your father was an active commander in battles.”

  “He is active, but he doesna lead his men as he should,” she said. “He lets Uncle Nathaniel and Uncle Matthew do that. He commands the entire battle from the rear.”

  William had fought the man many times and hadn’t known that. “Why?” he found himself asking.

  “ ’Twas a promise he made to my mother on her deathbed.” She looked at him, her eyes soft. “He promised her he would never again lead an army into battle so I would have less of a chance of becoming an orphan. I was their only child, ye see. It nearly killed my Da to make that promise, but he did to please my mother. My uncles said he was the best swordsman they had ever seen.”

  William didn’t reply, puzzled and strangely touched by the story Jordan seemed distant a moment longer before suddenly smiling, as if forcing herself from the subject.

  “I am glad ye did not acknowledge ye knew me in front of my kin,” she said. “My Da would have become suspicious and run me through for sure.”

  “For what?” he demanded.
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  “For consorting with the enemy.” she insisted. “If my Da even suspected that I had ever tended an English wounded, then he would brand me traitor and kill me.”

  William pulled his gauntlets on. “Nay, he would not have,” he said. “I have pledged my life to protect you, Lady Jordan, be it at Langton or at Northwood. Your father would not have laid a hand on you.”

  The chivalrous declaration flattered her. When he extended a gloved hand to her, she accepted and he pulled her effortlessly to her feet. Their eyes locked and Jordan felt volcanic emotions swirling between them. The feelings were so intense that her arms tingled painfully in response and she had no idea what she was feeling or why her whole body ached when he had simply touched her hand. It was disarming but not at all unpleasant, and she wondered if he had felt it, too.

  She was embarrassed for feeling that way from the touch of an English knight. She should be insulting him, cursing him at the very least for being her enemy, but instead she was letting him touch her… and she was liking it. What an unworthy Scot she was.

  Once again, she mounted the gigantic horse and tried to get comfortable with her sore bottom. William bellowed for his squire and began dropping pieces of armor faster than the boy could pick them up. Jordan watched him curiously. When he was finished, he was armorless from the waist up, wearing only a padded linen tunic.

  He glanced up at her, rolling up the sleeves. She detected no warmth, no friendliness in his gaze and wondered what she had done that had made his behavior change so abruptly since leaving the stream. He seemed cold and distant again, as he had back at Langton.

  He mounted the horse behind her and she closed her eyes for a brief moment at the sensual shock of being pulled up against his massive chest. Without the armor, he was infinitely more comfortable but to have him so intimately close flustered her. She should demand that he put his armor back on, but she just could not seem to form the words.

  “I thought you might be more comfortable without all of that armor crowding you,” he said quietly into her ear.

  She nodded shortly, puzzled. The silky voice and the hard gaze she had just met a moment ago did not match. Was this man always so confusing?

  The caravan moved on, Jordan resting against William’s muscular body. The heat he radiated coupled with the rhythmic sway of the horse drew at her and she found that she was completely exhausted. But she fought the sleep that tried to claim her, fearful that if she were to sleep, somehow she would find herself in the clutches of an English soldier with evil on her mind. Even though William had pledged to protect her, how could she be sure? She didn’t know the man, his mind or his convictions. For all that she knew, she should be trying to protect herself from him.

  She tried to sit forward a little, putting a minuscule amount of space between William’s body and her own. A minimum safe distance. Yet between the movement of the horse and her own weariness, she soon found herself resting against him once again.

  Sweet Jesu,’ but she felt content when she was pressed to him. It was an indescribable feeling of pleasure and satisfaction such as she had never experience before. Although she was still denying it, her instincts told her that William’s pledge was honorable and true, and that he was a man of his word.

  He said he would die for her. Somehow, she believed him, although she didn’t want to. She somehow knew that she could sleep completely in his arms and that nothing at all would harm her.

  It was so queer, this trust she felt with him. Strange and wonderful and the same time. All she had was his word, the word of an Englishman no less, that no harm would ever come to her. And she believed him.

  Darkly, she began to feel traitorous. What had she told Jemma? That she would show the English what Scot pride was? That she would make her family proud? Feeling the emotions that she was for the captain was certainly no way to make her family proud.

  But she was in a new world now, and she had to do what she had to do to survive in it. If no one but her knew what she was feeling, then no one would suspect that she was a weak, silly woman whose weak, silly emotions could rule her head. Only she would know her shame. The shame in actually not hating an Englishman.

  For the moment, she had stopped fighting and fearing it wasn’t long before he felt her relax completely and her breathing grew steady. He shifted her so that she lay across him, her head nestled against his massive bicep and her creamy breasts half-pressed into his chest. She slept the dead-sleep of a child, her rosy lips parted mostly in sleep.

  As tumultuous as Jordan’s thoughts were, Williams were worse. He gazed upon her for a moment impassively, as one sees after a weaker and smaller being. He felt secretive, allowing himself to drink in the beauty of the woman who had infatuated him for the better part of a year. He still could not believe she was real; not one of his faded dreams, and he found that holding her in his arms was one of the more pleasant experiences of his life. Better than he had imagined.

  One of William’s officers, a young knight named Jason Grey, rode alongside. He could have almost been William’s younger brother with his darkly handsome looks. His brown eyes raked appreciatively over Jordan in his captain’s arms.

  “A beauty, to be sure,” he commented seductively.

  William felt a strange sense of possessiveness creep into his veins. Calmly, he glanced down at his burden.

  “Aye,” he said evenly. “Jason, go to the wagon and retrieve a cloak for my lady. It looks to rain.”

  Jason reined his animal around and dashed back along the column.

  William let out a sigh of release. He hadn’t realized he had been holding his breath. It occurred to him that having his angel of mercy so near him was going to create a tremendous conflict in his mind. He had to control himself where she was concerned, no matter what kind of debt he felt to her. It was an unpaid debt he felt toward her, correct? No more than that, he told himself. He felt obliged to protect this woman because she had undoubtedly saved his life, and, because he had been ordered to.

  …right?

  Uncertainty flooded him. Good God, man, is there more to this than you are allowing yourself to admit? Impossible. He had no use for a woman, Scot or English. He had not the time, nor the desire.

  But there was one thing that tugged at him persistently; he had met this woman a mere two times in his life and she had left an indelible mark on him as if she had burned her presence into his very soul. No one had ever done that. Aye; he would admit that fact and that one alone.

  As William wrestled with confusion, Jason brought back the matching cloak to the dress she wore. Between the two of them, they managed to cover her quite nicely. William’s horse, smelling the fox lining, snorted and danced at the strange scent. He clucked to the animal and spoke softly to it, and soon the warhorse calmed.

  “And what, pray, do you think the old lord is going to do with her, my lord?” Jason barged into his thoughts.

  “Marry her,” William replied, uninterested in his knight’s innuendos.

  “Of course, but what is he going to do with her?” Jason was taking delight in his perverse thoughts. “He is fifty years old. She will surely kill him with her vigor.”

  William glanced impassively at his young subordinate. Jason was usually mildly amusing, but not today. He sighed and looked away.

  “I have no time for this, Jason,” he said shortly. “Send Paris to me.”

  Jason, puzzled at William’s curt reply, nonetheless went obediently to find Paris.

  Paris de Norville was William’s right hand. Tall, well-built, with a sensuous face and a crown of well-kept blond hair, he was immediately at his captain’s side. He also knew William better than anyone and could not recall ever seeing such an expression on the man’s face. As he reined his horse close, he scrutinized William.

  “My lord is taking a personal interest in this treasure?” He nodded his head in Jordan’s direction.

  He ignored the comment. “How is it with the men?”

  Paris looked of
f into the spring-green countryside. “Rumbles, grumbles, and innuendos. All that sort, but for the most part they do not seem to care much about her.”

  William nodded, absorbing the information. “Just the same, Paris, if I am not with her, you will be. I will take no chances with her welfare.”

  Paris nodded. “Agreed, my lord,” he replied, looking over at the figure sleeping beneath the cloak. “She is damn beautiful for a Scot, is she not? No wonder her father was so protective.”

  William did not dare look at his friend; Paris knew him far too well and he was afraid that the man would read the mass confusion he was feeling. Already, he could feel the man staring at him.

  “Aye,” he said simply.

  The army continued until just after dusk when William ordered a halt. Tents were pitched and fires started. They were just inside the English border now and he was feeling a bit easier. His mood was lighter as well. Tonight the men would dine on roast mutton.

  Jordan awoke with a start when the horse stopped. She hadn’t awoken the whole time William was barking orders and he smiled at the humor of it.

  “What’s wrong?” she gasped. “Where am I?”

  He held her tightly to keep her from thrashing her way right off of the horse. “We are making camp, my lady, unless you care to sleep on a moving horse all night,” he said.

  She looked at him as recognition dawned, realizing where she was. She ran a shaky hand across her brow.

  “Nay, my lord, I wunna,” she murmured. “I am quite anxious to get off this swaying beast.”

  William dismounted the destrier and held his arms up for her. Gratefully, wearily, she slid into them and he lowered her gently to the ground. Their eyes met and Jordan experienced a painful, unfamiliar jolt of excitement. She was positive he could read it on her face. Embarrassed, she turned away.

  If William noticed, he didn’t say so. While he personally saw to the settling of his men, Paris and three other knights sat with Jordan and the two Scottish maids she had brought with her. Paris politely built a fire, smiling openly at her, but Jordan stared at the ground. Without William to protect her, she was terrified of the strange knight.